


the Bobby John AU ficlet compilation

by Fallynleaf



Series: the Bobby John AU [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Castiel, Bittersweet, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Kid Fic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Shifters, adopted family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An early season six AU that uses the episode "Two and a Half Men" as a springboard and centers around Dean and (not soulless) Sam, with some help from Cas, raising the shifter baby Bobby John. This is a mostly gen work, though a few of the ficlets focus more on the shipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Room With a Good Southern View

**Author's Note:**

> When [tyanite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite) and I watched the episode "Two and a Half Men" in season six, we immediately latched onto the idea of Sam and Dean raising Bobby John in some alternate universe where Cas actually confided in Dean (and realized that he was not remotely coping) and thus never teamed up with Crowley to tap into Purgatory. In this AU, Cas pulled Sam from Hell with his soul intact (and without Samuel Campbell).
> 
> Because Dean and Sam have a fear of raising a kid as a hunter, but a shifter kid would've never had a shot at a normal life anyways.
> 
> Essentially, this is the closest I think Sam and Dean could come towards achieving a happy ending. And even then, it's a somewhat bittersweet one, and isn't really an _ending_ so much as a _beginning_.
> 
> Because of the huge expanse of time this AU encompasses, I've been writing it as relatively self-encompassing ficlets that tie into each other while serving as snapshots of a much bigger story. The ficlets are deliberately presented in a non-linear order to allow for some open-endedness.
> 
> This is an infinity-part series. But I will undoubtedly stop adding on to it eventually, so I've tried to write every single piece so that each one leaves off on a conclusive note.
> 
> The plot of this AU is a collaborative effort between me and [tyanite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite), and we would both welcome and encourage other people contributing to this 'verse if you feel so inclined! Comments would also be greatly appreciated!

_the first time they attempt to settle down_.

_Bobby John is six years old._

 

The master's bedroom was somewhat small, as far as master's bedrooms go. There was a south-facing window that took up most of the far wall, letting light spill into the room and fill all of the corners. They would need to buy curtains soon, Sam knew. Neither of them were heavy sleepers.

Dean climbed onto the bed and bounced a few times, testing the springs, then lay down and placed his hands behind his head. "Nice mattress," he commented.

Sam walked over and flopped onto the bed beside Dean, turning his head to smile at him. "Yeah, it really is," Sam said. He couldn't remember ever actually owning a mattress in all of his life. Dean caught his smile and returned it, briefly, before he angled his head back to look at the ceiling.

Something struck Sam, then, that was small and nameless. It was a feeling, one he wanted to share. He sat up, then leaned over and very soon was straddling Dean.

"Sam, what‒" Dean started, his hands falling from the back of his head as he moved his arms down to brace himself against the mattress.

"You know, I can't believe we haven't had sex yet," Sam said with light amusement. "I mean, we're raising a kid together, and we've been sleeping in the same bed for a while now. It seems kind of logical. And I think it'd be a good way to let off some steam." He stared down at Dean, his eyes soft.

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Dean asked. He regarded Sam with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression.

"You and me, Dean," Sam said. "Having sex. With each other." He said it slowly, patiently.

"God, Sam. We can't. We're _brothers_. It would be‒" Dean closed his eyes.

"Wrong?" Sam asked. "Does that even matter? We've already been to hell. And after everything we've been through, everything we've _done_ , can we even say what's right and wrong anymore, Dean?" Sam stared at Dean's face, at his closed eyes, at his lips, and Sam wanted very badly to just tilt his head down and kiss him until they both forgot about wrong and right.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said. "And I don't know what we're doing with the kid, or with the house. I've just been playing the whole thing by ear this whole damn time." He opened his eyes, and there was sorrow there, but mostly he just looked lost.

"So why don't we just play this one by ear, too?" Sam asked.

Then Sam leaned down and buried his face in Dean's neck, leaving soft kisses on his skin. Dean let out a hiss of breath when Sam's mouth made contact with his neck, but then he relaxed into it, tipping his head back to allow Sam a better angle.

"Your long-ass hair, it tickles," Dean muttered.

Sam laughed against his skin, then pulled away to gauge Dean's reaction. Dean's eyes were screwed tight, his mouth thin.

For the first time, Sam was worried. "Is this okay?" he asked. "I don't‒"

"Shut up, Sammy. If we're going to do this, then we're going to do this. So stop worrying and freaking kiss me," Dean said.

"Okay, but you're going to have to open your eyes first," Sam said. Dean complied hesitantly. But his gaze held nothing but trust, and when Sam moved to kiss his lips, Dean leaned up and met him part of the way.

Dean kissed like a dying man. As if he had passed beyond desperation, beyond acceptance. There was nothing but _here_ , and _now,_ because there could never be anything beyond now. Sam supposed that _he_ probably kissed like a dying man, too. As if this, like everything that had happened since he walked out of that pit, raw and damaged, could only be part of some dream too fragile to hold.

They were both fragile people, in a fragile house, caring for a fragile child. They were fragile enough, they'd both already broken.

But broken things could be put back together. And Sam guessed that all of this, the house and the kid, was them, putting things back together.

"Sammy," Dean said, "If you decide to be a girl and try and say 'I love you' or some weak shit, I'm gonna‒"

"I love you, Dean," Sam cut in.

Dean glared at him. "I was going to punch you, but now I kind of just want to kiss you."

"Do both, if you want," Sam said, kissing him. Because after so many years, they were finally doing that. "Go ahead and show the kid a shining picture of domestic abuse."

"Oh, please. He knows I love you, Sammy," Dean said. If that was the only way he was able to say it, Sam would take it. "Kid knows goddamn everything," Dean continued. He smiled, and it was the first full, genuine smile Sam had seen on his face in a long time.

In the end, Sam was glad that the master's bedroom was small. That way, there wasn't room for two beds pushed up against the wall, a few feet of space between them, or even for two people to sleep on one mattress as if they were on separate beds with a sliver of emptiness between them.

And if the strong early morning light did stream in between the blinds, then, well, Sam thought that maybe he could get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a (slightly more pornographic) continuation of this ficlet that can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2166042).


	2. First Word

_after they've been the temporary solution for six months._

_Bobby John is one year old._

 

It was unlike any other experience, holding the baby. There was something calm and simple about it, something that was primal in a way that did not involve hacking at monsters with a machete, as had their last job.

Dean talked to Bobby John while he held him, because babies liked to be talked to. Told him about Mary, first. Ended up repeating most of the stories because there were only so many of them. Then he talked about John. There were a lot more stories about John, though most of them were not stories that should be told to an infant. Dean picked the best ones, the ones where John was almost a good father, if it hadn't been for all of the times he wasn't.

One day, Bobby John was Sam. Or rather, he wore Sam's face. Had been wearing it for several days. The last time Dean had held a one-year-old Sam in his arms had been a lifetime ago. But this kid was not Sam, and Dean understood that, and really, it made the whole thing easier rather than harder.

But then Bobby John, who'd been babbling off and on throughout Dean's entire story, looked up at him, smiled, and said, as well-articulated as a child's first word could be, "Dad!"

And suddenly, Dean couldn't breathe.

The baby squirmed a little in his arms, looking up at him all bright-eyed and smiley, waiting for validation, and Dean couldn't hold him anymore, couldn't _look_ at him.

Then Sam was there, easing the baby out of Dean's hands, and Dean had to go away, had to _get out of the room_. But there was only one room, and he made it as far as the furthest bed before he sank onto the edge of the mattress and let his head fall into his hands.

Dean cried with his hand curled and pressed to his forehead, his palm shielding his eyes.

He cried quietly, shamefully, hot tears spilling down his face and onto his lap.

Someone else's weight pressed down beside him on the bed, and it was Sam, but there was no baby with him. It was just the two of them, just Dean and Sam, as it had always been just the two of them. Sam said nothing. He just sat there, a comforting weight on the mattress.

After a long moment that might have been several moments, all of them stacked on top of each other like imperceptible dominos ready to be knocked over, an arm wrapped around Dean, _Sam's arm_ , and squeezed him, gently.

Neither of them acknowledged it or so much as glanced at each other.

It took a good while before Dean's tears ran dry. But when they did, he dragged his hand across his face, then wiped it on his pant legs and stood up. Only then did he look at Sam, who was standing up beside him.

Sam's face shone wet, his eyes red. He smiled at Dean through the sheen of tears, and Dean felt the corners of his own mouth turn up, and then he was looking away.

Both of them approached the baby, this time.

Cas was holding him, rocking him in his arms with a mechanical motion while gazing off in some direction beyond the walls of the motel. _When had Cas showed up?_ Dean wondered. He didn't ask, not now. He just reached out and took Bobby John back, cradling the child close, bouncing him a little. Sam stood beside Dean, a gentle presence looming over his shoulder.

This time, when Bobby John looked up at Dean, then at Sam, then back at Dean and said, "Dad?" trying out the word again, Dean chuckled roughly and smiled.

"Yeah, that's right," Dean said, his voice unsteady, but growing more at ease. "I'm Dad." He swallowed. "And Sammy here, I guess he's also Dad."

After that, there was no more talk of finding a set of suitable parents to take in the child. And eventually, Dean allowed himself to think that maybe he could be Dad without becoming John.


	3. Tastes Like Home

_shortly after they move into their first house._

_Bobby John is six years old._

 

Bobby John cried easier than Sam or Dean ever had. She ‒ for _she_ was a girl now, snot-nosed and freckled, all dolled up in a plaid dress that had once been one of Sam's shirts ‒ she never learned to slap together a temporary patch and pretend that all was well until it turned into an ugly scar. And hell if anyone knew how the child possibly learned anything else, being brought up how she was.

But Bobby John just cried. And then she talked, and then she fixed things.

So she smoothed away her tears, untangled her arms from where they'd been thrown around Cas, and then she looked up at him and said, "Dean's mad at me and I don't know how to fix it."

"I know a solution," Cas said. And it didn't matter if he actually knew or if he just thought it was worth a shot, because hearing those words made Bobby John smile.

Cas reached down and grabbed her hand, and then with an inaudible flutter of angel wings, the two of them stood inside the nearby supermarket, florescent lights flickering around them from on high.

Bobby John started towards the shopping carts, then stopped and grabbed a basket instead. "Will this do?" she asked Cas, holding it up. A cart was a little unwieldy for a young child, but a basket was manageable, maybe.

"That should be plenty sufficient," Cas said. "The list of ingredients is short. We should start with the fruit."

Midway through the baking aisle, Cas was reaching up and grabbing items off of the shelf, then lowering them into the basket Bobby John held out for him, when a woman walking by paused, snapped her gum once or twice in her mouth, then said, "You've got a cute daughter, there. Mine never wanted anything to do with baking."

Cas stared at her a minute, his hand suspended over the basket and clutching a box. He lowered his arm to his side without depositing the box into the basket. "Thank you," Cas said, gravely.

The woman shrugged, popped a washed-out pink bubble in her mouth, then wheeled her cart onwards to a hazy destiny.

As they stood in the checkout line, Bobby John danced excitedly on her feet, watching the conveyor belt bring all of the parts of their plan to a grand total of $17.53, which Cas paid for in cash and then promptly forgot to collect his change.

The kitchen counters shone brighter than the sun on Dean's old .45 when Bobby John spread the contents of the grocery bag over them. By the end of it, spilt flour dulled them considerably, sullying also the carefully cleaned tile grout. But Bobby John's work was done, and she perched on a misplaced dining room chair in the kitchen while she waited, tapping her feet against the wooden legs in impatience.

Then Cas had to handle the oven, and then Bobby John had to wait again, staring at her creation as it cooled on the windowsill.

Cas cut a neat, even slice of it when it was ready. Served it onto a small plate, then let Bobby John add a generous dollop of whipped cream. "Is it done?" Bobby John asked. Cas gave a slow nod. Bobby John took in a gulp of air, then reached for Cas's hand.

The two of them walked out of the kitchen together. Bobby John held the plate, gripping it tightly.

Dean looked up from his seat at the table when he heard them enter. He surveyed them, then his eyes stopped on the object in Bobby John's hands, and anything he had been about to say flew out of his mind. "Is that... is that for me?" Dean asked.

Bobby John walked over, dragging Cas behind, and held out the plate, her eyes cast lower that the floor. "I made pie for you," she said. "Cas helped."

Dean took the plate from her in awe, and then Bobby John bolted from the room. Cas stayed maybe a few seconds longer, then he disappeared, too.

The fork slid easily into the still-warm pie. Dean held up the first bite, stared at it, then put it into his mouth and just let it sit on his tongue for a bit before he chewed. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste. When he opened them, the pie was blurry. There were tears in his eyes, he realized. He blinked them away and took another bite.

"Must be pretty good pie," Sam's voice said, coming from the doorway.

Dean glanced down at it, at its telltale homemade-in-a-made-from-a-box-kind-of-way, at the pie crust that didn't quite make it to the edge of the pan, at the gooey red delicious apple slices that oozed from it and promised a better flavor had they been a different apple variety. It was the worst apple pie Dean had ever tasted.

But it was the best goddamn pie he'd ever had.

"Yeah," Dean said, swallowing. "It's pretty damn good pie."


	4. Advice From an Old Hunter

_it's been maybe a week._

_Bobby John is six months old._

 

Bobby had gotten into a habit of drinking furiously while on the phone with Sam and Dean. At first, he started just cracking a beer when he picked up, but the years wore on him hard, and Bobby realized he was too old to deal with that sort of shit completely sober, so as the years grew harder, so did his liquor.

Proving that his hunter's instinct was still there, Bobby poured himself a drink before he even answered this one.

"Aright, what do we do with the freaking baby?" Dean's voice grated at Bobby from the phone. "We've had it for too goddamn long already."

"Six days. You've had the baby for six days, seven tops," Bobby said. "And I'm looking into it. I've put out some calls already."

"We can't give him to just _any_ hunter," Dean said. "Or they'll infanticide his shifter ass." ‒ Bobby heard Sam's voice in the background: _"That's not a verb, Dean."_

"I'm old, not stupid, son. I've been contacting people selectively." Bobby took a sip of his drink. On the other end of the phone, he heard Sam say: " _Put the phone on speaker and set it down, I'm tired of holding him. It's your turn._ "

"Okay, fine!" Dean said, his voice angled away from the phone but coming through plenty clear enough anyways. There was a shuffling sound on their end, then Bobby could hear them both, Dean's voice muttering something soothing, presumably to the baby.

"Is the kid really that bad, anyways?" Bobby asked.

"Bobby John? What, no, he's fine," Dean said absently.

Bobby put down his drink. There was a weird knot in his throat. "You idjits... named the baby after me?" he said, his voice soft and a little rough.

"No," said Dean.

"Yes," said Sam, at the same time.

"...It was an accident," Dean said. "The first day we had the kid, a woman asked for his name and we both said the first thing that came to mind, which of course couldn't be the _same_ thing, so then we had to improvise, okay?"

Bobby thought that the two things they named were more similar than Dean realized. He also couldn't help but notice that of the two names, his was the one they put first, which left him oddly touched. Maybe alcohol made him sentimental in his old age.

"We should've decided what name to use before we went out in public with the baby, Dean," Sam said. "He's a baby. People always ask about babies."

"Well, if you'd told me you were going to say John, then I would've said it, too!" Dean groused back.

"Arguing like an old married couple, and the kid isn't even one yet. Great start, boys," Bobby commented, trying to keep the fondness out of his voice.

"Yeah, well, if everything goes as planned, we won't be there to celebrate his first birthday," Dean said. "His new folks can handle that one."

"Like I already said, I'm working on it," Bobby said. He glanced down at his drink. Realized he'd forgotten about it since he'd asked about the name. _His_ name, given to the kid his adopted boys were currently raising. "These things take time."

And if Bobby was completely honest to himself, some part of him hoped that it would take a lot more time. He only had so much of it left, after all. Might as well spend it helping his boys do something worthwhile.


	5. Bedtime Stories

_after settling down falls apart and it's back to motels and diners._

_Bobby John is eight years old._

 

The motel room was decorated in green and yellow, and the lighting made the whole room look sickly. Sam sat at a yellowed wooden table, John's journal spread open in front of him, pen scratching on faded yellow pages.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked, his voice low. He looked over at the far side of the motel room, at the kid-sized lump on one of the beds wrapped in a haphazard bundle of moss-colored blankets. Bobby John slept heavy. He'd stumbled into the bed exhausted, shoes still on his feet. Dean had untied them and set them on the floor.

"I'm adding stuff to Dad's journal," Sam whispered back.

Dean leaned over Sam's shoulder, reading his crisp lettering.

> _At birth, shapeshifters have no control of their shifting and can only shift into forms that match their age. When they reach about six or seven years of age, they ‒_

"You're writing about the kid?" Dean exclaimed, almost quietly.

"Yeah, I am, Dean," Sam said, putting down the pen. "We're pretty much learning about the entire lifecycle of shifters, information that no one else has. Doesn't it make sense to record that?"

"So that other hunters can use it to wipe out his kind?" Dean accused. He crossed his arms, leaned against the peeling green wall.

"Not necessarily, Dean. I mean, look at _us_. If we'd had access to this knowledge, it could have prevented everything that happened a few months ago. We could've still been living in a house, putting our kid through school, giving her a taste of a _real_ childhood," Sam said, his voice patient, hopeful.

"What you're writing is a fucking manual on how to kill our son."

"It doesn't have to be that way, Dean. This information could _help_ people," Sam insisted. He had that stubborn set to his jaw, the one he'd had on when he'd told Dean and John he was going to Stanford so many years ago.

Dean grabbed the journal out from beneath Sam's hands. He thumbed through it, holding the pages up to Sam's face. "You see this? This isn't a damn baby journal. There's no _'Sam's first word was: ___'_ scratched in the margins. This isn't even a damn folklore book. This is a hunter's journal. When someone cracks it open, it's because something needs to get taken care of. And I don't mean 'take care of it' like how we're taking care of the kid. This is a record of how things got ganked."

"And you've never even thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , it doesn't have to be that way?" Sam said. "Since when have we even considered the way Dad did things to be the best model?"

"Since the way he did things was the _only_ model!" Dean said. "It doesn't matter how different we are, Sam. Dad's way is the hunter's way, and shitty or not, that's how everyone else is going to keep on doing it. And it's our job to keep protecting the kid from it, because that's all we can do." He slammed the journal down on the table.

Both of them just stared at it, for a moment. At that innocuous leather cover that contained information that had saved their lives time and time again. It was all they had left of John, really. Everything he had worked for, the culmination of a lifetime of blood and an unending family road trip from hell.

"And I don't want to leave our kid that sort of legacy," Sam stated, his voice soft. "Don't you want Bobby John to know that at least we tried? That we had even just a little bit of hope for the future? We're supposed to be all about free will, Dean. That requires trusting that sometimes, a few people will make the right choices even when everyone else is making the wrong ones."

Dean's gaze moved from the journal to the bed, focusing on Bobby John's gentle movements as he shifted a little in his sleep. The light bulb in the kitchenette cast a greenish wash over the room, bringing out the worst of the colors, making Sam's face look tired and drawn, the journal old and off-color. But the kid looked content, almost, his face falling into a neutral smile. Maybe it wasn't just the lighting that made Sam look haggard, the journal aged.

"Fine," Dean said, after some length of time . "Add to the goddamn book. Put something in it that we can show to the kid. He'll be inheriting it someday, after all. And if anyone's going to have the last word, it better be us."


	6. Taking an Extended Nap

_after they've become the permanent solution_.

_Bobby John is one year old._

"I think I'm going to miss it," Dean said, lazily, the baby tucked against his side.

"Miss what?" Sam asked, laying on the other bed. Some television program droned on in the background. The channel had been Dean's choice, so Sam didn't bother paying attention to the program on principle.

"When we have to stop using the bottle," Dean said. He held it up to Bobby John's mouth, felt the familiar push and pull motion, enjoyed the whole rhythm of it.

"Yeah, we're going to have to finish weaning him off of it pretty soon," Sam said. "According to the internet, at least."

Dean glanced down at Bobby John. "It's going to be just cups and plates from about here on out, kid. And soon you'll be eating with forks and knives like a real man." He chuckled.

"Do we want to make this the last time, then?" Sam asked, catching Dean's eye.

"Yeah. I guess we probably should." Dean wasn't paying attention to the television, either. Normally, simply laying here like this, aimlessly doing nothing, would either bore him or put him on edge. But something about the baby made it different.

"Can I have a turn with it?" Sam asked. "Feeding him, I mean. If this is going to be it."

"Sure," Dean said.

Sam climbed onto the bed beside him and shuffled close, and Dean handed the bottle over to him, Bobby John turning with it like a sunflower seeking the sun. Dean watched the two of them for awhile, then realized that he probably wore a really soppy expression on his face, and tried to focus on the television instead, where judging by the sound effects, some woman was either being tortured or was making out with the protagonist.

"You know, we deserve a break," Dean said. "I mean, we just started and stopped the apocalypse. We can leave the next big mess for someone else to clean up, for once."

"Well, adopting a kid kind of forces us to take a break," Sam said.

"I'm saying we shouldn't feel guilty about it, is all," Dean said. The motel room was all shades of pink, the softness of it distracting. "There aren't many jobs that can be done with a one-person hunting team. We've done all that we can as long as one of us has to stay back with the baby."

"I could assist you," Castiel's voice said.

"Cas? When did you get here?" Dean asked, sitting up to glance around the room.

Castiel stood to the left of the television, staring down at Dean and Sam and the baby between them. "If you need another person to accompany you on a hunt, I am willing to offer my assistance," Cas clarified his previous statement. "I suppose I could also stand guard over the shifter infant if that would be a preferred form of assistance."

"Oh, fantastic! Looks like we found ourselves a babysitter, Sam," Dean said with a grin.

"I thought you were all tied up with the civil war in Heaven, Cas," Sam said. "Can you really spare the time for this?"

For awhile, Cas stood there, silent. Then he said, "I have neither the power nor the desire to become the Viceroy of Heaven in Michael's absence. And I've found that I have grown weary of politics and do not care to become heavily involved."

"I think you deserve a break, too, Cas," Dean said. "And if you're like me and Sam and can't leave it behind entirely, then, well, there's plenty of good to be done right here on earth." He looked at Bobby John. "This kid right here's as good a place to start as any."

"I am profoundly grateful that you would allow me to assist in such an endeavor," Castiel said.

"Remember that the next time you have to change a diaper," Dean said. When there was no response, he called out, "Cas?" But the angel was no longer in the room.

"He'll be back, Dean," Sam said.

"I know. I'm sure he still has a few things to take care of, up there." Dean lay back down on the bed. He glanced beside him at Bobby John finishing up the last of the milk in the bottle and felt a wave of lethargy set into him all at once. He listened for the familiar noise of the television in the background only to discover that Sam had turned it off and he hadn't even noticed.

"Do you want to feed him the last bit?" Sam asked.

"Okay." Dean took the bottle back, the plastic still warm from Sam's hand. He felt a little sad when it grew empty and he had to remove it gently from Bobby John's mouth and set it aside.

Bobby John fell asleep soon after finishing his last bottle. Dean thought that the baby had the right idea. His whole body felt heavy as he just lay there, listening to the three of them breathing. He didn't remember when he closed his eyes, but when he opened them, the sun had climbed a few hours higher in the sky and had started to descend, and Sam and Bobby John were still beside him, both sound asleep, and an angel stood at the window, a halo of cheap motel pink around him, motes of dust swirling in the light, and Dean thought that if this was peace, he never wanted to let go of it.


	7. Like Moving Water

_another day on the road between cities, between jobs._

_Bobby John is ten years old._

 

Sometimes sleeping in the car meant the air was hot and stuffy, like those nights in the south when God cranked up the dusty thermostat twenty degrees too high, but sometimes it meant waking up to cool air wisping against her face, sharp and crisp and a reminder of what it felt like to be alive.

That air had a sweetness to it, Bobby John thought, breathing it in. She pushed Dean's coat off of her, then sat up on the slick leather seat and peered through the open window.

Dean and Sam were standing a few paces away from the car. They were talking in low voices, their hands almost touching. Dean caught Bobby John's eye and smiled. "Hey, looks like sleeping beauty's up."

Bobby John grabbed her toothbrush ‒ clear red, like television blood ‒ and stepped out of the car, walking over to them. Dean reached over and ruffled her hair, and she elbowed him lightly, then stuck her toothbrush in her mouth. "Where are we?" she asked, speaking around the plastic.

"North Carolina," Sam said. "We're just passing through, but this is one of the nicest places to wake up to, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah," Bobby John said. She'd seen waterfalls before, but never quite like this, fast and towering, rumbling down the mountainside just off of the road, a streak of bright white and iridescent spray against the rock. "Yeah..." Bobby John repeated. She finished brushing her teeth. Walked back to put her toothbrush away and grab her duffle from the trunk. "I'm gonna change, okay?" she said.

"Go ahead, kid," Dean said. "Take your time. Sam and me aren't going anywhere."

Bobby John stepped into the small cluster of woods. When she walked out, she was wearing a dress, a soft, faded pink one that she'd picked up in Albuquerque, and her hair was shorter and darker, and the shape of her body was all different.

When Dean saw her, he did a bit of a double-take. "Uh, it's been a long time since you wore that skin. You've, um, grown, kid," he said. He appeared to be trying very, very hard to not comment on the fact that she was wearing a man's skin ‒ a boy's at the moment, really ‒ while also wearing a dress.

"I've gotten older, yeah," Bobby John said. "And I still haven't figured out how to change my age. Been practicing, though." She stuck her hands into her pockets. That was her favorite thing about the dress, probably. It had pockets that could fit her hands in them up to a few inches past her wrists.

"I'm glad to see that dress still fits you," Sam said.

"It's the _only_ clothes that fit this body right now," Bobby John said. "But I don't mind it. It's a good dress." She looked at Dean, who was still pulling a very odd expression, and said, "If it's too confusing, you can just keep calling me 'she' for awhile, if you want. I don't mind."

Then Dean's phone rang, and he held it up to his ear and took a few steps away. "Hey, Bobby..." he said into his cell. A few exchanges later, he turned towards Sam and Bobby John and said, "Bobby wants to know how the kid's doing."

"Tell 'im she's doing great," Bobby John said.

"She's doing great, Bobby," Dean said. "And about that vampire nest of yours..." Bobby John tuned him out as the conversation turned strictly business.

"Hey, Dad, is Cas going to meet us here?" Bobby John asked Sam.

"Yeah, he should be here soon," Sam said. "I think he's still tied up with‒"

"Dad!" Bobby John greeted, running over to hug the angel in the very familiar trench coat. She pointed at the waterfall, and said, "Look! It's pretty, isn't it?"

"It is exceptionally pleasing, yes," Cas said, reaching up to return the hug after a moment. Bobby John pulled away from him and turned back to gaze at the waterfall, and Cas said "A new soup kitchen just opened in Memphis."

"We should go to Memphis," Bobby John decided, leaning against Cas. She listened to Dean's footsteps as he approached them, his phone call concluded, the sound of his shoes against gravel blending with the gentle roar of the waterfall.

"And there was a recent series of unusual disappearances in Jackson," Cas added.

"I guess we could do Tennessee for awhile," Dean said. "At least until winter break. How are the schools in Tennessee?" he asked.

"I'll look into it," Sam said. He tossed the keys at Dean, who caught them absently.

Some minutes later, they were back in the Impala, Bobby John sitting next to Cas in the backseat. The car engine started with its familiar growl, and Bobby John responded with a half-smile, patting the seat beside her. She took a few deep breaths of the clear mountain breeze before she would have to roll up the window.

"Maybe shifters aren't meant to settle down," Bobby John said, legs brand new and well-stretched, lungs full of air that tasted like waterfalls.

Dean turned around to look at her, placing a hand on her knee and giving her a gentle squeeze. "You don't have to say that, kid. We'll keep trying. We're going to find you a home somewhere, okay?"

"Okay," Bobby John said. She didn't say that she already had a home, right here, with all three of her Dads in this car with her bright red toothbrush. She turned around and waved goodbye to the waterfall, then to North Carolina, hours later. It was okay. She knew she'd be back, someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet also has a (definitely more pornographic) continuation, which can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2173920).


	8. By the Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this ficlet contains vague spoilers for seasons six through eight.

_before they've found a rhythm yet_.

_Bobby John is four years old._

 

Some part of Dean always felt uncomfortable in grocery stores. Like he was some sort of imposter, treading a path that didn't belong to him. He glanced down at Bobby John, who was trailing along behind him, child-sized hand completely lost in Sam's grasp, and wondered if the kid felt like that all the time, wearing someone else's skin every moment of every day.

Dean was in the middle of turning to ask Sam if he'd grabbed the last item on their hastily scrawled grocery list when something happened that he had never experienced before in all of his life:

He glimpsed someone he recognized in a grocery store.

"Wait, that isn't..." Dean started, watching the man approach them, half-filled basket in hand.

Sam followed his gaze, then stopped and stared. "Chuck?" he said, hesitantly.

"Hey Sam, Dean," Chuck said. "Kid," he added, as an afterthought. "I knew you guys were in town, but decided I wouldn't let that disrupt my weekly trip to get groceries. Long time no see, by the way."

"No way. _No way._ You gotta be‒" Dean started. He took a breath, glanced at Bobby John, and started again. "There's no way the grocery store we popped into for ten freaking minutes just so happens to be _your_ freaking grocery store where _you_ freaking _live_."

Chuck shrugged. "Coincidences happen," he said. "You guys should be happy, though. I haven't published anything in almost four years. Ended the series, actually."

"Really?" Dean said. Best news he'd heard in years.

"Yep. Ended it, then sold the rights to someone else." Chuck switched his basket to his other arm, toying with it in his hands. "Last I read, you guys are part of something called the 'Men of Letters' now. And you were looking for some sort of magical tablets."

"Why?" Sam asked. "Why 'd you finally decide to stop writing now?"

"Because no one wants to read about all of this," Chuck said, gesturing to the two of them and the kid, who was hiding behind Sam's legs. "Sam and Dean take a break from saving the world to adopt a kid. That's not _Supernatural_ ; it's Super _domestic_. And the fans don't want it. They want betrayal, they want death, they want to read about you fighting tooth and nail to bust out of Purgatory."

"Well, screw the fans!" Dean said. "One of them can try saving the world next, see how _they_ like it!" He didn't know why he was defending his lifestyle choices to the man who spent his entire career as a writer violating Dean's privacy to every single one of those choices.

"I know. That's why they're getting something else. And you know what? After I stopped working on it, the writing got better, too. Because I might be a crap prophet, but I was even more of a crap writer." Chuck set down his basket, eyeing it pitifully.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Bobby John just kept staring silently at Chuck, face pressed against the denim of Sam's pants.

"Well anyways, I just thought you guys should know. Any new Supernatural books out there? They aren't mine. I'm not responsible. And they may still be about you guys, but at least now they aren't _about_ you guys, right?"

"Uh, that's good. I think. Maybe," Dean said.

"I guess I'll let you get back to your boring, uninteresting domestic lives," Chuck said, sighing. "Tell Castiel I said 'hi,' and tell him I'm glad he didn't start going after souls to supercharge his angel batteries." Chuck picked up his basket, and started to walk away.

"Bye... Chuck," Sam said.

"Boring," Dean scoffed. " _Boring?_ According to who? A jobless hack writer? I'm gonna‒"

"Dean," Sam said, grabbing his arm. "Let's just go. I got the rest of our list. Let's just get the hell out of here."

Dean paid for the items with a grumpy scowl on his face the entire time. When Sam pointed out that Bobby John was imitating him and was wearing the exact same expression out of the store, Dean denied any responsibility. He blamed the fact that he always felt uncomfortable in grocery stores.


	9. Got Under Your Skin

_the second time they attempt to settle down._

_Bobby John is twelve years old._

 

Dean wiped away a trail of blood on his face before it could drip into his eye, glancing at the man who stood beside him, wiry and tense in the way that characterized all hunters. "Is that it, then?" Dean asked.

"Yes, I think we took care of it. The area should be safe again," the man said. He spat out a wad onto the ground, which Dean stared at in mild distaste. He'd never cared for tobacco of any sort, despite the clarity that supposedly came with a nicotine high. But Dean said nothing, knowing that every hunter had his own personal poison. Because each and every one of them knew that when he died, it wouldn't be from cancer. "It was good hunting with you," the man continued. "Glad to have you on my side."

"You too, Eli," Dean said. He watched the road, waiting for a familiar car to pull up and take him home. It was nice, knowing that he had a home to go back to. Something to protect.

It wasn't much longer before the Impala turned the corner and idled by the side of the road. Then the engine stopped, and the door opened, and Sam stepped out. And that was all fine and expected, but then the door to the passenger seat also opened, and Dean's heart made an uncertain jump, because Bobby John walked out, and that meant Dean's _kid_ was here, at this junction between the hunting world and the normal one, and that thought went against everything he'd been working for these twelve years.

"Dad!" Bobby John yelled. And she was running towards him, and Dean was watching her approach, frozen. Then she curled her arms around him, and at least he knew what to do in this situation, so he hugged her back, briefly, then separated from her and coughed, trying to maintain the tough hunter reputation he'd established in Eli's presence.

"Alright, kid, let's go," Dean said. He looked towards Sam and the car, and started to walk in their direction.

But then Sam's eyes went wide, and there was the sound of feet shuffling on wet mulch behind Dean, and Sam shouted "Dean!" but his gaze was focused on something happening behind Dean, and Sam was breaking into a run.

Dean whirled around only to watch as Eli drew a silver knife and held it to Bobby John's neck, one muscled arm wrapped tight around her, trapping her.

"Hey, that's my kid!" Dean yelled. "You've got my kid!" His voice broke part of the way through in his desperation.

"This isn't your kid, it's a monster!" Eli shouted back. "It's just wearing your kid's skin," he said.

Bobby John struggled, fear and panic in her eyes. "Dad!" she cried, the word long and drawn out.

"No, you don't understand, that _is_ my kid," Dean said. But the closer he got, the more Eli's knife dug into Bobby John's skin, so there was nothing he could do but stop and beg from a distance. "My kid is," he swallowed. "My kid is‒"

"Whatever this is, it _killed_ your kid," Eli said. "Killed her and wore her home. Your judgment's clouded by grief, son. I'm doing this for your own good. You'll forgive me when you see‒"

Sam's fist slammed into Eli, and he stumbled, loosening his grasp enough for Bobby John to slip out and run.

As soon as she was out of sight, Dean's thoughts dissolved into simmering rage. He tackled Eli to the ground, wrestled with him for the knife, then let his fists talk for him. He stopped feeling the crunch beneath his knuckles after the third or fourth hit.

"Dean, stop!" Sam yelled, his voice pushing through Dean's anger.

"Did you see what he tried to do, Sammy?" Dean yelled back. "He tried to kill our kid!"

"So after all the years we lost to Dad's quest for vengeance, after the year _I_ lost, you're going to let the thirst for revenge take you, too?" Sam said.

Dean looked up, past the bruised and bloody mess he'd made of Eli's face, and he found Sam. Sam, who was holding Bobby John gently, tears from her face smeared on his shirt. Dean took in a brief, stabilizing breath. And then he redirected his focus to the kid, where he knew it should've been the whole damn time.

"He didn't know, Dean," Sam said, quietly. "Maybe at least we can help stop this from happening again in the future."

Dean's gaze slipped back to Eli's mostly prone figure. He let go of Eli, then staggered off of him. Dean kept a wary eye trained on the hunter, but didn't make another move to hit him. "My kid _is_ a shifter, you damn son-of-a-bitch," Dean finally said.

Eli watched his movements, but did not respond in words, though his eyes showed that he was aware and comprehending.

"And if you ever try to kill her, or him, or whoever they are at the moment..." Dean started. "Hell, if you ever so much as step within the same city limits as us, then next time, I _will_ kill you. Revenge be damned. Because I will do whatever it takes to protect my family."

"Understood," Eli said, his voice weak.

They left him there.

Presumably, at some point, Eli got to his feet, his everything hurting like a motherfucker, and climbed into his old truck and hit the road as fast as his sputtering old engine could make it go. But Dean and Sam didn't stay long enough to find out.

They got back to the house that had been _home_ , and wordlessly, they all began to pack their things.

But the first thing Bobby John did was shed their skin and pick a new form, _any_ form, stripping away their old identity with the house. And when Bobby John turned around, shivering and naked, and he was wearing Dean's face, Dean pulled the kid into an embrace, held him tight and safe again, if only for this small moment, and steeled himself to take it all away from him.

Some miles away, Dean pulled over.

He got out of the car and opened the trunk. Took out two pistols, and closed it again. Then he stepped out into the woods, Sam and Bobby John following behind him, and chose a spot.

Dean turned around, and found himself face-to-face with his own twelve-year-old self. Bobby John wore Dean's own expression of apprehension, but mixed with it was an emotion that made Dean's stomach twist even harder: excitement.

"Alright," Dean said, his eyes finding Sam when he couldn't bear to say this directly to the kid. "Today we're gonna teach you how to shoot."

"And tomorrow?" Bobby John asked.

Dean closed his eyes, briefly. Then opened them, and forced himself to meet Bobby John's gaze. "I don't know," Dean said. Hunters couldn't allow themselves to think of tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short piece that explains Eli's backstory can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2178654).


	10. Five Golden Rings

_their first Christmas in a house they owned._

_Bobby John is six years old._

 

Dean had just finished manhandling the Christmas tree into a mostly upright position when the doorbell rung.

He opened the door and found a woman standing there. "Hey, neighbor!" she said, which answered Dean's question of _who was she, and why did she look sort of familiar?_

"Uh, hey?" Dean greeted her hesitantly. He wasn't exactly used to casual neighbor etiquette. He smiled, and his eyes traveled down to the object she held in her hand, which was oddly textured and mostly obscured by a few layers of saran wrap.

"I brought you a fruitcake!" The woman said, holding it out. Dean took it from her in shock, and she tacked on an explanation. "I've seen you and your husband and your kid around, but I haven't really welcomed you to the neighborhood yet, so uh, think of this as an overdue welcome. And also, Merry Christmas!"

Dean opened his mouth to correct her assumption about him and Sam, then thought about it for a second and realized that it was the much less suspicious explanation, and just said "Thank you," instead. He must have accidentally included a meaningful pause at the end, because she filled it with her name.

"Judy," she said.

"Um, Dean," he offered in return. "My, bro- uh, husband's name is Sam, and the kid is Bobby Jo." He left off the last few letters of her name when introducing her as a girl in the interest of hopefully provoking less questions.

"Well, I'm glad to finally meet you, Dean," Judy said, shaking his hand. "And oh my god, Bobby Jo is _adorable_. I'm so glad you decided to move here. I love kids. _Other people's_ kids, at least. Don't have any of my own." She smiled at him. "I should be letting you get back to them. It's Christmas Eve, after all. Wouldn't want to keep you away from your family for too long."

"Thanks, Judy," Dean said, again. He immediately made up his mind to bring some sort of baked good by her house in return. Like maybe a pie.

When he walked back into the living room, he presented the saran wrapped plate triumphantly and said, "We got a fruitcake!" He pumped his fist.

Sam eyed the fruitcake with arched eyebrows. "That's great and all, Dean, but I didn't know you even _liked_ fruitcake."

"I don't!" Dean said happily. He set it down on their small dining room table, then walked back into the kitchen to resume preparing dinner.

The doorbell rang again.

This time, it was the person Dean had been expecting. "Bobby!" he exclaimed, gesturing for him to step inside.

"I actually showed up five minutes ago, but then I saw the woman walking up to your door, and thought I'd wait just a bit," Bobby said. Dean caught the meaning in the look Bobby directed at him, and he wasn't quite sure how exactly to broach the news that actually, the woman thought that him and Sam were not only gay but also married to each other.

But then the kid ran up and saved him the trouble, launching herself into Bobby's arms. "Grandpa!" she exclaimed.

"Do I really look that old to you?" Bobby said, his voice grumpy but fond.

Bobby John nodded. "Yep," she said. "But c'mon, I have to show you the tree! Me and Sam and Cas are making decorations for it right now!" she grabbed Bobby's hand and dragged him into the living room, ignoring his grumbled protest.

When Bobby saw the tree, he stopped and stared at it. "You idjits actually got a real tree?" he said, somewhat disbelieving. "Where'd you find one? I didn't see much of a forest around here on the drive over."

"We went down and bought one at a Christmas tree farm like actual normal people!" Dean said, feeling proud at having successfully faked his way through seeming like someone who buys a Christmas tree every year, despite the fact that due to a misconception concerning what a Christmas tree farm actually looked like, he'd gotten them all horrendously lost on the way over.

The tree was scraggly and lopsided, some of the needles already browning and dropping. It had been the saddest looking tree in the whole fake grove of them, so of course Bobby John had taken pity on it and insisted on picking it like this was a fucking Charlie Brown Christmas.

It had taken the combined efforts of an angel and Dean's sasquatch of a brother to fix it with a strand of lights that Dean had picked up at a nearby thrift store. None of the green lights worked, and only about a third of the blue ones did, but it lit up the room with a nice warm ambiance regardless.

And Dean thought everything was worth it for the look of pride on Bobby John's face as she surveyed the work of their labors. She turned toward Bobby, her face illuminated with a cheap red and orange glow, and said, "D'you wanna help me and Sam and Cas decorate it?"

Bobby looked at Dean. "If you're not helping, then what're you doing?" he asked.

"Dinner's not gonna cook itself, Bobby," Dean said, motioning to the kitchen. "And unless you want to help with that..."

"Alright, then. I'll decorate the damn tree," Bobby said. And as soon as he sat down, Bobby John handed him a sewing needle and pushed the bowl of popcorn towards him.

Dean stepped into the kitchen and rolled up his sleeves.

Some minutes later, he stood frying vegetables at the stove when he felt two arms snake around his waist, a very familiar voice murmuring "Hey," into his ear.

"Kind of busy, Sam," Dean said. But there was a grin on his face that he didn't intend to be there, and Sam was solid and warm and comfortable against his back.

"How's dinner coming?" Sam asked. "Need any help?"

"It's coming along fine, and no, I don't," Dean said. He let himself lean back into Sam, just for a moment, spatula in hand at the ready.

"Jesus H. Christ," someone said from the doorway. And Dean's heart stopped.

Sam dropped his arms immediately, stepping away from Dean. "Uh, hey Bobby," Sam said, running a hand nervously though his hair.

"A few years ago, I was complainin' because the two of you idjits were acting like an old married couple, but now you're acting like newlyweds," Bobby said, walking into the room. "It's like time's moving in the wrong direction for you two."

"We're, um, we're just‒" Sam tried to say. Dean just stood there, rigid. He heard the vegetables sizzling on the stove behind him, but he couldn't move to attend to them. His eyes followed Bobby's movements, and Dean knew they betrayed his wariness.

"I know what the two of you were doing, boy," Bobby said. "And I'm old, and tired, and grumpy, but‒" he sighed. "But I don't think I can find it in me to condemn you for loving each other too much."

It was like someone had set a blowtorch right next to Dean and dethawed him all at once. He blinked, then turned to stir the vegetables, trying to hide the overwhelming sense of relief that would be plain all over his face.

"Wait, you mean, you... approve?" Sam asked. "You _approve_ of the fact that me and Dean are sleeping together?" Dean winced when he heard it said out loud.

"I can't‒ I can't really say I _approve_ of it," Bobby said. Sam deflated at once, and Bobby continued hastily, "Because it sure ain't the path I would've chosen for my boys, but I'm gonna accept that you've chosen it, and I sure as hell ain't gonna disown you for it." He took a breath. "Though please, spare me the details."

"Bobby..." Dean said, his voice strangled. He turned around, had some vague awareness of Sam plucking the spatula out of his hand, then found himself across the room with his arms wrapped tight around Bobby. _Thank you_ , he tried to say, but what came out was: "I'm sorry." _I'm sorry I let you down._

"You've never done that, boy," Bobby said, his voice gruff, but also soft. And Dean hadn't realized that he'd said the last part out loud, but now that he had, there was no denying it, no taking it back. "And you don't have to apologize to me," Bobby continued.

Some floodgate had broke and opened entirely, and Dean didn't know exactly what to do with the rush of relief and gratitude and general restfulness that washed over him. _It's okay. Somehow, everything is okay_.

Eventually, Dean separated from Bobby. "So, um, dinner," he said. "I'm preparing it," he stated, dumbly. "Have to get back to it and all."

"Yeah, I get it. I'll let you two lovebirds get back to writing each other sonnets and giving each other bouquets," Bobby said.

"We've never done either of those things!" Dean protested.

"Well as far as my mental images are concerned, that's all you're doing." Bobby started to walk back out of the room. "Next time I see the two of you, you'll both have wedding rings on, I swear," he said over his shoulder.

Dean went silent, contemplative. And when Sam offered him the spatula with a question in his eyes, Dean just took it and said, casually, "Our neighbor Judy ‒ a nice woman, by the way ‒ thinks the two of us are married."

Sam smirked. "And what did you say to that?"

"I told her that my husband's name is Sam."

Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. Started to say something, then stopped.

"So maybe we should get rings," Dean said. "Just in case she asks about it. Don't want to have to resort to something weird, like, pull down the neck of my shirt and tell her we've got matching tattoos instead of rings."

Sam thought about it, for a minute. "I'll get you something gaudy with diamond hearts on it," he said.

"Get out of my kitchen," Dean growled.

Several hours later, they all sat in the living room watching television, which was the only truly consistent holiday tradition they'd ever had, though they'd made sure that Bobby John had some other ones, too. Like family.

The Christmas tree occupied most of one corner of the room, standing there all slightly unlit and droopy and festooned in popcorn strands and candy canes and various other slapdash disposable ornaments. Actual presents sat underneath it, wrapped and ready for morning.

They'd moved the rest of the furniture and the chairs to accommodate the tree, so the five of them sat fairly close together, Bobby in the armchair, Sam, Dean, and Cas all squished together on the sofa, Bobby John sitting on a different person's lap every ten minutes or so.

Dean started off channel surfing, but then he stopped and set down the remote. "I wasn't going to settle for some cavity-causing holiday crap, but here we have an important learning opportunity," he said, glancing at Cas who sat pressed against his left thigh, Bobby John balanced on his lap.

" _It's a Wonderful Life_?" Bobby said, skeptical.

They had missed the beginning of the film, but not the most important part, which Dean proceeded to point out to Cas as soon as it appeared onscreen: "Cas, meet Clarence," he said, waiting for the realization to dawn in Cas's eyes.

But Cas just said, "Hello, Clarence," as serious and straight-faced as ever. Bobby John started giggling.

Dean threw up his hands, and if one of his arms happened to settle around Sam's shoulders when he lowered them afterward, then no one said anything about it.

At some point, Bobby John got bored, then sleepy, and it wasn't long before she was sprawled across all three of their laps. But of course, she woke up just in time to hear the famous line at the very end of the film: " _Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings_." And shortly after that, Dean would learn to regret watching the film with her at all, because she repeated the line incessantly for at least an entire week, despite several attempts on Dean's part and finally Cas's part to correct her regarding the matter of angel wings.

They all tried the fruitcake and ended up having it for desert. It tasted homemade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an (actually not pornographic) continuation for this ficlet, which can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2179512).


	11. Letting Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet is the Bobby John AU's version of some of the events in episode 6.14 "Mannequin 3: The Reckoning." I kept a few bits of dialogue from the episode, but changed most of it.

_it's been more than six months._

_Bobby John is one year old._

 

Outside the motel room, it rained. Big, blubbery droplets that felt cold as they slithered down your shirt. But Dean was inside the motel room, where the heater was old and cranky, but still working, and he was sitting on the floor with a red, plastic car in hand, making engine noises as he pushed it across the tile.

The engine noises always made Bobby John laugh and try and grab the car from Dean's hand. Usually, Dean would make an exciting escape sequence out of it, and then he'd have the car circle back within the kid's reach, and Bobby John would pick it up and clutch it in a toddler's ham-fisted grasp and wave it around wildly in the air, saying "car!"

This time, Bobby John grabbed the car with one hand, but reached for Dean's hand with the other, and curled his tiny fingers around Dean's thumb and held tight.

There was a warm feeling in Dean's chest, an awareness born from an outpouring of love, that this tiny, fragile person was his to take care of. He knew he had a sappy smile on his face, but that was okay. Dean and Sam had long since stopped feeling embarrassed over that.

"Hey, Dean, your phone's ringing," Sam said.

"What?" Dean blinked a couple times. "Oh. Just a sec, hang on." He reluctantly extricated his hand from Bobby John's grasp, then stood up.

Sam handed him his phone, and Dean glanced down at it and froze.

"Lisa?" he said into the receiver. "What's wrong?"

"It's me‒" Ben's voice. "‒And I think there's something wrong with my mom."

The blubbery rain dribbled down the windows of the Impala for the first fifty miles. After that, the skies cleared up, and Bobby John got bored and started screeching, and Sam tried to quiet him, but neither Sam nor Dean were particularly calm at the moment, and Bobby John could sense it, so the screeching became wailing.

Dean's ears were ringing by the time they got to Battle Creek, Michigan. Sam dropped him off on Lisa and Ben's street, then drove off to find somewhere to change Bobby John's diaper and feed him.

As soon as Lisa answered the door, Dean realized what had happened.

"We've been parent-trapped," he said, glancing at her dress.

Dean explained the situation to her. Then he sighed, and called Sam. In another universe, maybe, he would have been pissed off and angry. And yeah, he was still a little pissed off, but mostly he was relieved that Lisa was okay.

"Is he a good guy?" Dean asked. "Your date tonight, I mean."

Lisa smiled a sad smile. "Yeah, I think he is," she said. "I like him. I like him _a lot_. I think Ben would, too, if he gave him a chance."

"Want me to try and talk to him?" Dean asked.

"You can try," Lisa said.

Dean went upstairs and knocked on Ben's door. After he heard a sullen invitation, he opened the door and stepped into the room. "Ben... Lisa and I... we're done," Dean said.  "It didn't end badly, and it was no one's fault, but it's over."

"If your brother means that much to you, why don't you marry him?" Ben asked bitterly.

"Sam's not the reason I left," Dean said. "Well, he's not the _only_ reason. The truth is..." Dean sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I couldn't do this to you."

"Do what?" Ben asked. "Go away? Get killed by something?"

"No, _this_. Me," Dean said, motioning to himself. "I couldn't do to you what my dad did to me." The words were hard to say. They stuck in his mouth like grit.

"What, teach you the coolest job in the world?" Ben said.

Dean shook his head. "You don't understand, 'cause you've got other things, choices you can make, but when you're raised like I was... everything narrows down to just one road. And at the end of it is the barrel of a gun, and either you're the one behind it or in front of it."

"But you're saving other people. You're a hero," Ben said. There it was: Dean's own lie, the one he'd spent nearly his entire life telling himself.

"And it's not enough. It never is," Dean said. He took a breath. "Because this job‒ it causes you to hurt the people that you love. And that's what I'm going to do, Ben. If I stay in your life‒" Dean's throat closed up, and he swallowed roughly.

"It's okay, I get it. You're leaving, and if I ever try to trick you again, you're going to delete your number from mom's phone," Ben said.

Dean smiled. "You're a smart kid, Ben." He turned to walk out of the room, then stopped, and glanced back. "And if you want to save people... become a fireman. That's what I wanted to do." His voice grew quiet.

After that, Dean mostly just felt weary as he waited in Lisa's living room for Sam to show up with the Impala.

The car pulled up, idled at the curb for a couple seconds, then the growl of the engine shut off and the front door opened. Sam stepped out, his arms full with Bobby John, and Dean walked out of the house and met Sam by the time he reached Lisa's porch.

Bobby John, who had shed his previous skin in the time since Dean had last saw him and now sported a head of wispy blond curls, squirmed in Sam's hold. "I want Dad!" he said.

"I'm right here," Sam told the kid.

"No! Other Dad!" Bobby John said.

Dean reached over, and Sam transferred the toddler into Dean's arms. In his excitement, Bobby John proceeded to repeatedly bash Dean in the back of the head with the toy car.

"Whose kid is that?" Lisa asked, one eyebrow quirked.

"Mine and Sam's," Dean said without thinking.

"Oh?" Lisa's incredulity was palpable.

"What happened to not wanting to raise a kid?" Ben's voice asked, his tone scathing. Apparently, he'd followed Dean downstairs.

"Bobby John's not human," Dean said. "He's a shifter. And his birth mom's dead, and his, uh, biological father is a monster. We're all he's got."

"Car!" Bobby John supplied. He got a little overzealous in flinging his arms around, and Dean heard the plastic car slip from the kid's fingers and clatter against the concrete.

Ben was looking at Bobby John with something almost like jealousy in his eyes. Slowly, Ben crouched down and picked up the toy car, then held it up and offered it to Dean. Dean reached for it, but Bobby John was faster, and the toddler plucked the toy right out of Ben's hands.

Bobby John gurgled happily, then said, "Car!"

"Yeah, _car_ ," Dean said. "Which we should probably get back into. I'm... sorry about all of this, Lisa. And Ben. I'm sorry about everything."

"Is this it, then?" Lisa said.

"Yeah. This is it," Dean said. "Call me if..."

"...If there's something in your line of work around here," Lisa finished. "But otherwise..."

"...This is goodbye," Dean said. They both knew it was. Even Ben knew, though he was probably going to sulk about it for another couple weeks. Months, maybe. Until his memory of Dean faded a little, and other exciting things stepped into his life.

"Well, then goodbye, Dean," Lisa said. She moved to hug him, but Dean's arms were full, so they shook hands instead. It felt like a promise.

After the Impala turned the corner and Lisa's street was already starting to become a blur on the horizon, Sam asked, "Are you okay?"

Dean stared out at the road. The same long, lonely road that always seemed to stretch in front of him. "Yeah," he said. It took a little while for him to realize that it wasn't even a lie.


	12. Catch a Break

_during a little bit of a respite._

_Bobby John is nine years old._

 

It was spring, and the world was melting. Sioux Falls dripped like a pair of winter boots beside the hearth, everything new and green and turned to slush. Bobby John was on spring break, and if Bobby understood it right, Sam and Dean actually planned on sending the kid back to the same school after the week ended instead of using the government-sanctioned break as an excuse to uproot yet another damn time.

It wasn't the same as trying to set up a new home again, but maybe it was getting there. Bobby had almost suggested they try out the Sioux Falls school system, but he knew that if _that_ fell through like the other times had, he wasn't sure if he could bear it.

But for now, it was spring break and just the two of them in this house.

"Here, grandpa," Bobby John said, handing him the old leather-bound book he'd fetched. Bobby took it with a grumbled _thanks_ and did not complain about the nickname because he'd long grown used to it. Funny how the spur-of-the-moment cover stories they used for Bobby John so often ended up becoming real.

Bobby peered down at the boy, at those bright blue eyes beneath dark hair. "Hey, Junior, I'd been meaning to ask... Are you wearing Castiel's face right now or Jimmy's?"

The kid blinked. "I dunno. I think I'm kind of both? I get flashes from both of 'em, at least," he said, shrugging.

And Bobby's gut twisted in a sort of awe, because this nine year old kid had some of the weight of an angel's millennia on his shoulders.

"Can we go into town today?" Bobby John asked.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Bobby said. "Just let me catch a phone call, and then we can leave."

They wandered through the farmer's market, as per Bobby John's request. The kid stopped at a table that sold handmade leather journals, beautifully bound and latched closed around ivory-colored pages. He picked one up and ran his fingers over it, staring at it in wonder, and Bobby caved before the kid even broached the question, counting out a few rumpled bills and passing them over the table.

Bobby John was still young enough that he could look at a leather journal as something worthy of entranced wonderment and not as an object bound in blood and duty. Bobby hoped for all it was worth that the kid never had to grow out of that.

Of course, the more Bobby John helped Bobby organize his extensive collection of books and journals, the more disenchanted with them he was likely to get, but the kid had been helping for months now, and that twinkle of excitement still hadn't left his eyes.

And it was still there the day after the farmer's market, Bobby noticed, watching as the kid thumbed through a small stack of journals on the table.

Then a familiar knock sounded on the front door, and Bobby opened it, and Dean was on his doorstep.

Dean proceeded to grin and receive a hug from Bobby John as he explained that Sam and Cas were caught up with some last details of a hunt and should be showing up by the end of the week.

Bobby didn't ask why Dean came back early, but he wasn't complaining. He'd never admit it to them, but he wished they'd stop by more frequently, with or without the kid. He supposed that maybe Dean wished the same thing, too.

"So, what have you and Bobby been up to?" Dean asked Bobby John, ruffling the kid's hair.

"Goin' through journals, mainly," Bobby John said. His eyes lit up. "Check this one out!" he dragged Dean over to the table. "I found it behind the bookshelf!" the kid said proudly. "It's so skinny, it slipped right back there and no one even noticed!"

"Nice," Dean said, putting up a show of looking over the book. But Bobby could tell that his heart wasn't in it. Even before John had left Dean with only his journal, Dean hadn't exactly looked at hunters' journals with fondness.

"Hey, uh, kid?" Dean asked. "I was thinking maybe the two of us and Bobby could head downtown and go to the park. We could, I dunno, toss around a ball or something. Y'know, just... normal kid stuff. How does that sound?"

Bobby John nodded. Then Dean looked to Bobby as if he expected Bobby to provide the ball, and Bobby had to bite back his trademark "oh _, balls_ " so that he didn't make an awful pun. "I think I've got something around here," Bobby muttered, heading up the stairs.

He found a very worn pair of catching mitts and a baseball sandwiched between several children's books in a corner of the attic. There was a layer of dust over them that immediately irritated Bobby's nose and set off a flurry of sneezes, but he retrieved the whole box of things anyways, recognizing several artifacts from the days of Sam and Dean's childhood.

Bobby didn't exactly like to throw anything away if he could help it, so it wasn't exactly a _surprising_ find, but it did give him a brief pause as he remembered the first time he'd gone out and bought those books for a couple of kids that weren't even his own. There'd been more than these few books, and Bobby John had already devoured those just like a true child of Sam Winchester, but these were the first few, the trial run, before the floodgates into surrogate fatherhood had burst open and swept them all along for the ride.

But now, the dust-induced sniffle in Bobby's nose looked to be sticking around longer than it should, so he gathered up the books and mitts and the baseball and took them back downstairs before he got choked up enough for it to get embarrassing.

Bobby John wavered between excited and indifferent the whole way to the park.

Once they were outside of the car, the indifference had mostly evaporated, and the kid was talking animatedly about something relating to a couple pages in a journal, but neither Bobby nor Dean were paying particular attention to the details.

Old woman Elsie greeted Bobby as he passed her. Elsie frequented the park most non-winter weekdays. She had no surviving family left, and she liked to watch the children play, so she tended to amble about the park and sit at different spots for a couple hours or so until her back gave her enough trouble that she had to go inside.

Bobby knew these things because Elsie had told him. She talked a lot, Elsie did. And since she was old and lonely, Bobby typically humored her. It made him feel less old and lonely himself in comparison.

"Your grandson is growing up so fast, Bobby," Elsie said. "Every time I see him, he looks taller."

Elsie was also the reason Bobby had gotten the nickname _grandpa_. He'd decided that the real situation was too complicated to explain to her, so he'd gone for the easiest answer, and then the kid went and picked up on it, and, well...

"Thanks, Elsie. It's nice to see you," Bobby said, trying not to walk past her too brusquely.

"Have a nice day," Elsie called after him.

They found a good patch of grass, and Bobby's chest was warm and tight at the same time, because the last time he'd been here like this, catcher's mitts and baseball in hand, had been with Dean. And now he was handing off one of the mitts to Dean again, except this time he was passing the other one off to Dean's adopted kid.

Bobby swallowed down the nostalgia and gave the baseball an easy toss, watching as Bobby John reached out to catch it, a smile split across his face.

They played for a while. Dean switched off with Bobby after a couple throws, and then the kid wanted to watch both of them toss the ball for a bit, surveying their technique, and eventually, Bobby John got bored enough with the simple tosses and bet Dean that he could catch a ball halfway across the park.

The kid broke into a run, tearing across the grass, and Dean turned to Bobby and said, "I won't let it happen." His voice was quiet, but steady. "I'm not going to watch him become a hunter. I'm going to make sure he has a home, and Dads who love him and play catch with him and host goddamn tea parties, and I never want to see him have to point a gun at a monster and pull that trigger."

Bobby didn't know what to say to that. He just nodded, and cast his gaze out over the damp park past Elsie sitting on her lonely bench with a worn smile on her face, past the Impala parked under a dappled shadow, past even the dark-haired kid waving his arms at the top of a small hill, his face blurred with distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an additional scene for this ficlet, featuring Bobby John and Bobby and a hunter's journal, which can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3554399).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Idols](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772797) by [tyanite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite/pseuds/tyanite)
  * [Guard Dogs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140918) by [tyanite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite/pseuds/tyanite)
  * [But we were built to fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152192) by [tyanite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite/pseuds/tyanite)




End file.
